Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  What precisely should be said, whether that a near relation of the Acworth family had substituted himself for Stephen Acworth, on the latter falling seriously ill, in order to evade his creditors, and had subsequently confessed to the deception, Darcy had scarcely had time to decide, but Elizabeth comprehended that his absence must impose on her a silence respecting recent events not to be broken. It was some comfort, however, that she could speak freely to Mrs. Gardiner as being privy to the whole grand secret, and whose retentive memory treasured up details that Darcy might have forgotten to relate, especially concerning the real Stephen Acworth.

  “In the course of their meetings your uncle found him everything that could be wished in point of character and general understanding, though his grasp of business is perhaps deficient owing to lack of experience. He lives too much above mundane considerations to seek his own advantage. His delicacy of feeling might by some be called womanish, but I do not know that to be such great dispraise.”

  “He would appear to be all that my husband hoped for,” said Elizabeth. “This affair will have a happy conclusion after all, I foresee. Now there is only one thing left to wish for—no, there are several things. First, that the ball should be over; second, that my husband should settle down at home, and not run hither and thither about the country on other people’s business; third, that Georgiana should be happy, for in spite of her seeming tranquillity I do not think she is so; fourth, that Anne de Bourgh would go home. She is behaving in a most peculiar manner. It is agreed that we are all to be sorry for her, but it does not make me like her any the more.”

  Miss de Bourgh’s chief peculiarity lay in a studied avoidance of her hostess. Deprived of her mother who ordered every moment of her day, it might naturally be supposed that she would be at a loss for occupation, and Elizabeth had started by offering her all the attentions one bestows upon a specially honoured guest, endeavouring to ascertain her wishes and proposing various schemes for her entertainment. But Anne made it plain beyond mistaking that she wanted none of her. Every day after breakfast she asked for a carriage to drive her either to the Parsonage or some other neighbouring house, and showed the utmost determination to go alone, for on Elizabeth’s first offering to accompany her, contrary to her own inclination and purely as a matter of courtesy, she evinced something that could only be called displeasure. Frequently it happened that she stayed out until close upon dinner time. Where she had been all those hours she omitted to say, for she did not open her lips more than was absolutely necessary for the prosecution of her own affairs. Her manner was not only forbidding, but furtive, as if she were harbouring a guilty secret. It was a nice point to decide whether she were witless or slightly deranged, and Elizabeth was tempted to the conclusion that the latter state of mind was answerable for her otherwise unaccountable behaviour. Jane read the matter differently.

  “Consider the novelty of being able to go where one pleases and do as one chooses. Anne de Bourgh has been kept in all things like a child. No doubt the delicacy of her health has induced in Lady Catherine an excessive vigilance over her, and maternal solicitude may have led her to overdo her care of her daughter. It is only natural that free, perhaps, for the first time in her life, Miss de Bourgh should resent even the appearance of restraint upon her liberty.”

  “You may be right,” said Elizabeth. “It is certainly the most charitable construction upon her manner of going on. But I should have thought that ordinary good breeding would have prompted a little more politeness to myself and her fellow guests. Upon any view her conduct is exasperating. When it pleases her she can ask a favour of me. Lady Catherine took away her maid with her, and Anne who had shared the maid was left without any. She therefore came to me and asked for Rachel Stone. At first I thought that a request for a girl so young and inexperienced was a piece of modesty, but far from it! I offered her Mason or Billing; neither of them would do, only Rachel Stone. Of course I gave way.”

  “Do not you think,” said Jane, speaking with a slight hesitation, “that she may be pining after Mr. Acworth?”

  “I see no signs of it, and as I half expected that she would betray disappointment, I am not likely to have missed any indications of the sort.”

  A curiosity not altogether unjustifiable decided Elizabeth to call some time at the Parsonage and discover, if possible, what attraction drew Anne there. One day when Mrs. Gardiner and Jane Bingley had driven off to Lambton on a shopping expedition, and she was otherwise at leisure to do as she chose, she gave herself the indulgence of going down to the village on foot, meditating as she went along upon the vicissitudes of this most eventful of summers. Having paid one or two visits to old family pensioners and thus provided herself with an excuse for an unexpected and informal appearance, she arrived at the door of the Parsonage and rang the bell. Several minutes, long to the patience of a lady not accustomed to be kept waiting, elapsed before Thomas opened the door and ushered her into the dining-room. There Miss Sophia was discovered sitting alone, and on seeing who came in, visibly started and displayed extreme confusion.

  “Oh dear,” said she, stammering and agitated, all her features working and suffused with a pink blush, “we had not the least idea—that is, I am so very pleased to see you, Mrs. Darcy. You are indeed quite a stranger. I am sure Sister—would you be so very good as to excuse her—she is rather particularly engaged. But had she known—I am sure—However—” Here either her ideas or her voice failed her and she ceased abruptly.

  Concealing her amazement Elizabeth sat down and began all the usual polite enquiries after the health and concerns of the Miss Robinsons. In due course she reached the subject of Miss Sophia’s flower-garden, surely a safe one. But all Miss Sophia’s stammering and agitation returned as she replied that the garden was very well, but not what it had been a fortnight ago, that just at the moment it was not at all worth looking at. As it was perfectly clear that she had some reason for keeping Mrs. Darcy out of the garden on this occasion, Mrs. Darcy was so obliging as to introduce another topic. She began to speak of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s sudden recall to Rosings, gave the latest intelligence of the spoliation of that august dwelling and ventured a few reflections on the wickedness of the times. By such degrees did she arrive at mentioning Miss de Bourgh. It must be the greatest comfort to Miss de Bourgh that she had the Miss Robinsons at hand whenever she had exhausted the resources of Pemberley House. It was indeed something to have friends who made one feel so very much at home, who could be depended on to extend an unfailing welcome whenever one dropped in.

  Miss Sophia replied haltingly that Sister and she were always pleased to see Miss de Bourgh. As Mrs. Darcy had said, she had quite got into the habit of dropping in for a little chat. Sister and she missed Lady Catherine excessively. It was all a most dreadful business, and she hoped that those wicked thieves would soon be hanged.

  While she was speaking Miss Sophia glanced about her nervously, peered out of the window over Elizabeth’s head, stopped as if she knew not what she was saying, and in other ways betrayed a strong desire that her visitor would go away. Such manifestations could hardly be ignored. Refusing a belated offer of refreshment, Elizabeth rose to her feet, and leaving her compliments for the elder Miss Robinson, withdrew in a manner designed to allay the least suspicion that she had noticed anything strange in the mode of her reception.

  But as she crossed the road from the Parsonage gates and entered the park and struck into the path through the wood the feeling uppermost in her heart was of indignation. The obvious explanation of Miss Sophia’s maladroit behaviour was that her calling at the particular time had been regarded as unwelcome—as an intrusion. In all likelihood Miss de Bourgh was being entertained in the drawing-room and on hearing the doorbell clang had expressed the wish that no other caller should be admitted—she was fully capable of that. As a compromise Miss Sophia had been deputed to receive the unwanted visitor in the dining-room and get rid of her as soon as she co
uld without being downright uncivil. The discovery that it was Mrs. Darcy who was to be treated thus discourteously had thoroughly flustered her. Without the wit, the presence of mind, or perhaps the courage to vary the instructions of her sister, she had in fact bungled the business ludicrously.

  Having completed to her satisfaction this portrayal by her imagination of the circumstances of her visit as both credible and probable, Elizabeth began to view the matter in a humorous light and, as she went along, to make of it a story such as she might relate to her husband, enlivened by those touches of fancy which transform a mere dull recital into a theme for laughter. Thus employed, her eyes fixed upon the ground and only half sensible of her actual surroundings, she remained unaware that someone was rapidly approaching her along a path converging upon her own until an abrupt intimation, that she was no longer alone, but was being followed, made her turn round. There, at the junction of the paths stood a man. It was Acworth. Thus she still thought of him.

  The shock of his appearing in this place when she had believed him to be many miles away caused her cheeks to blanch and her limbs to stiffen. “Mr. Acworth!” she exclaimed faintly. “What does this mean? What are you doing here?”

  He made an eager movement towards her. “I did not mean to alarm you,” he cried. “I would not for the world. I followed you because I must speak to you—this once, if never again. What others may think of me I do not greatly care, but to you I do seek to justify myself, or if justification is not truly possible, to lessen your contempt of me. I entreat you to listen.”

  She looked at him doubtfully, and as if answering an unspoken question he continued hurriedly, “I returned to Pemberley this morning and was at the Parsonage when you called. As I did not wish anyone to know of my presence in the place I asked leave of the Miss Robinsons to retire when the doorbell announced a possible visitor, but they would not hear of it, and so Thomas was directed to show anyone desiring to enter the house into another room. As soon as I learned who had come I quitted the Parsonage under pretext of fearing discovery, but in reality that I might intercept you as you returned through the park.”

  She was not so overcome by the surprise of the encounter that his explanation perfectly convinced her of its truth. It raised too many questions for that. But while refusing to exhibit the complaisance of a willing dupe, she must equally avoid displaying mere curiosity as such.

  “Do the Miss Robinsons understand the part you played here?” she asked gravely.

  “No,” he replied. “Mr. Darcy did not think it necessary that they should be told as they were not directly affected.”

  “Perhaps he did not foresee that you would revisit the scene of your—your—forgive me. What else can it be called but your imposture?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Call it what you will. I do not deny that it was. But when you know all—”

  “You took a great risk,” she went on inexorably. “The chance of my calling at the Parsonage might appear remote from your knowledge of my habits, but Lady Catherine and her daughter have been constant visitors there as you are well aware. For aught you knew they might have been there today.”

  After a perceptible hesitation he replied, “The intelligence of Lady Catherine’s departure had reached me in my retreat. Would it not be natural to suppose that Miss de Bourgh had also quitted Pemberley?”

  “Yes,” answered Elizabeth, deciding on a bold stroke, “it would be perfectly natural. And it must have taxed your ingenuity indeed when, if I collected her intentions rightly this morning, you found her already with the Miss Robinsons.”

  “Not very much ingenuity is needed where Miss de Bourgh is concerned,” he said, looking down. “I believe that my real purpose in revisiting Pemberley was to see you once again, if I might. As you say, I know your habits, your love of wandering through the woods unattended. Oh, do believe that I speak the truth,” he cried, raising eyes that flashed with an intensity of feeling. “Nay, hear me,” he demanded vehemently, as she sought to stop him. “You, secure in your own happiness, can hardly deny the consolation of speech to one so wretched, so accursed as myself. You have heard what I have done, what my life has been—every vice has doubtless been laid to my charge. But you have not heard what I have suffered, what drove me in my despair to those courses which the happy and prosperous condemn so self-righteously. What was it but my love of yourself, that torturing passion doomed to frustration from the outset. Do you remember how one day near this very spot as we were walking together I told you the story of a man, representing him as a friend of mine, who fell in love with a woman on beholding her as she stood with a party of friends in the vestibule of a theatre? I hoped you would understand. That man was myself, the woman no other than yourself. Would you have me tell the story afresh?—how I lived but to see you again, only to learn that you had given yourself to another. From that day all happiness, all hope was over for me.”

  He paused, panting for breath, but before Elizabeth could utter a word of expostulation he rushed on again impetuously.

  “You have been told that I came here feigning to be Stephen Acworth in order to escape the consequences of folly and crime. That is true; I did. But the inducement beyond all others was the opportunity afforded of seeing you, living in the same house with you, holding speech with you. What might come of it I hardly asked myself. A madness took possession of me and I acted without thought or care for the future. Alas, hope soared to be dashed to the ground. From the very first you showed your mistrust of me, inspired, if I mistake not, by Mr. Darcy. You took your tone from him. Because I did not ape the ways of your country gentlemen, because I dared to confess to unfashionable accomplishments you disdained me as if I were scarcely fit to come into your presence. You were a great lady—you had a husband, you held me off.”

  “Mr. Acworth,” interrupted Elizabeth, “you have no right to speak to me in this manner. I am truly sorry for your misfortunes, I do make allowances for your conduct, but you must be perfectly aware that you laid yourself open to mistrust on an occasion that we can neither of us forget, and these reproaches are totally unmerited. We are now meeting, as you have said, for the last time. Do believe that I wish you a happier future.”

  She held out her hand in farewell, but he seemed not to see it.

  “I have so much to say to you,” he said, looking at her despairingly, “and this opportunity must not pass away before I have said at least some part of it. Whatever you may hear of me in the future, do not believe that I shall for one single instant be inconstant to your memory. Your image will be ever before me as of the one woman—incomparable—who has taught me the holiest feelings of the heart. For that I do thank you, without that lesson I might have gone through life ignorant of what it can hold of beauty. Say that you forgive me, not only for what I have done, but for what I may do again.”

  She said something in reply, she hardly knew what. He fell upon one knee, seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. There he remained bowed before her, neither speaking nor moving. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and without a glance or a word rushed away through the trees and was lost to view.

  Elizabeth turned and continued her way towards home, but so painful was the tumult of thought and feeling agitating her that she had not gone far before she found herself unable to proceed another step, and she sank down upon a slab of moss-covered rock that projected from the ground against the path and endeavoured to compose herself.

  Tears came but afforded no relief, reason could give no firm declaration but was as unsettled as her sensations; she was unable even to summon up a clear idea of what had happened. She longed to confess everything to someone who would understand and absolve her from all blame and rid her conscience of its irrational sense of guilt. But no one was at hand, and when she cast about in her mind no one would do but her husband who was absent. Convicting herself of having been aware from her first meeting with Acworth of his sentiments towards her
, she began to censure herself unsparingly for withholding from Darcy the least circumstance of which he could justly have complained. Oh, why had she not been candid with him? To leave him in ignorance of Acworth’s return, of the encounter in the wood, of the substance of their conversation was unthinkable, but that imposed on her the obligation to say also everything that hitherto had been left unsaid. She had no fear that he would show anger; she could not bear to think that he might henceforth regard her as undeserving of his trust.

  While these thoughts raced through her head she could not altogether forget Acworth’s distress. No woman, however happy in her married life, can remain indifferent to a man who professes to love her without hope of return and swears to cherish her memory until death. His suffering must excite pity, her recollection of him be tinctured with some part of tenderness. Elizabeth would rather have hated and despised Acworth; it was an affliction that she could do so no longer—he had to that degree impressed himself on her heart. The impression made by his speech, his gestures, his passion and despair were not perhaps indelible, but thus they would seem at every pricking of memory.